


Panda Assassin

by BardicRaven



Category: Oxford Comma sentences, Spelling and Grammar (Fandom)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardicRaven/pseuds/BardicRaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a Panda walks into a Chinese restaurant. Or, to use the words of my brother-in-law-in-spirit, why we need Panda Control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panda Assassin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mothallah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothallah/gifts).



> ##### What happens when you combine Yuletide with my husband's weird sense of humor.
> 
> ##### In other words, the spark for this, is all his fault.
> 
> ##### You have been warned.
> 
> O>>>\------------->
> 
> Introductory Note The Second
> 
> So, my dear Yuletide Recipient, it having come to my Attention that there is a Confusion regarding the below-written Story, namely, In Re: where the Story begins, let me tell you a story OF the story, and hopefully thereby reduce the Confusion and the associated Stress marring this otherwise delightful Hollyday Season.
> 
> You see, and I hope this does not tell you too much about me, which would be a Violation of the Rules, but I write upon the 750words.com every day. This is a Habit and a Delight of my Recent Years and a thing that (usually) I look forward to. And indeed I did on this day, all the more so because my Husband, lovely man that he is, and with a Sense of Humor that occasionally Surprises me, as well as thoroughly Delights me, told me of this as we spoke in Casual Conversation beforehand, and I knew I had to write it down. And then, when I saw your Prompt, dear Recipient, I knew I had to write it out for your Yuletide Delight.
> 
> So, here you go, dear Recipient, I hope that you Enjoy! :-) 
> 
> May you have the Merriest of Yuletides! :-)  
> Yule-Goat-t0-be-named-later

# The Story of the Story, or the Version that Started It All (a.k.a. the Introduction to the Place that We are Going)

#### Once Upon a 750words...

Zither-based Goons! Zither-based Goodness!!!

Which reminds me - there is a Fic-let about a Panda going into a restaurant, ordering a tasty Bamboo Salad, such as a Proper Panda would Purchase for Prandial Pouncing, then, afters, pays the tab, gets up, goes over to another customer, pulls out a weapon, fires, and then departs the restaurant while everyone is standing around wondering what to do next. 

Or, in other words, the Story about the Panda who eats shoots and leaves, then shoots, and leaves.

##### Thanks to my husband for that one - I just wrote it down. He's the one who came up with it. Therefore, to him belongs the glory and any pun-ishments that may be due.

##### And I hope you won't mind, dear Recipient, if I gift this to him as well (after the Reveal, of course, to honor the Rules and preserve the Anonymity). After all, he provided the Spark and the Inspiration for this Humble Author to work upon.

O>>>\-----------> O>>>\-----------> O>>>\-----------> O>>>\-----------> O>>>\-----------> O>>>\-----------> O>>>\----------->

# Yuletide - PandA Assassin The Story Itself, or the Version that Came from It (a.k.a. the Place that We are Going)

Pan-Pan Po nudged open the red-paneled door and entered, the gold paint of the trim leaving faint spangles on the black pads of his paw. He made his heavy-strided way to his favorite table, sat down, and contemplated many things, the menu among them. 

Not that it really mattered - he only ever ordered one thing. He twitched his furry black ears in amusement at himself.

Still, they made a very fine bamboo salad here. He had that to say for it, if nothing else. It was one of the many reasons he chose this place as his primary workplace. He settled back against the red upholstery to wait, the golden trim providing a nice accent to both the furniture and his furr, as he sat quietly, making the occasional gesture of acknowledgement to certain of the patrons around him as they acknowledged him.

He was known in these parts, for all he tried not to be. After all, his... special skills... were better used from the shadows. Not that he would ever truly blend in - his black and white color scheme saw to that. 

Always, always, something of him was standing out. 

He supposed it was a metaphor for something, but he didn't take the time to wonder what. Right now, there would be food to eat and then a task to take care of. Later... well, later would take care of itself, as it always did.

The waiter who came to take his order was deferential without being obsequious, a fact that he appreciated every time he came here.

The whole thing was a bit of a ritual with him, actually. The same restaurant, or, if that was not possible, one as close to it as possible, the same food – a nice bamboo salad, prepared just so, with the barest hint of an excellent citrus dressing on top to delicately accent the stalks and the leaves sprinkled in an attractive garnish on top.

The sitting down, the play of words between himself and the waitstaff, the delightful anticipation of the foods to come, then the slow savoring of the salad, all a prelude to the tragedy to come, marked contrast and bitter necessity.

O>>>\----------->

Sometimes, he wondered why he'd started down this path, chosen the road of the assassin, when it was so decidedly not the path he would have chosen, had expected to choose. After all, there were plenty of other, far easier, roads in life for a panda to take, both in the wild and in captivity.

But, as always, he remembered, even tho' there were times he longed to forget – the steadily decreasing bamboo forest of his childhood, the fears that began to spread among his family, his neighbors, fears they would starve in the midst of former plenty. The duty of an eldest son to provide. Encountering the man who would become his patron,, his sponsor, his employer. 

A need stated. 

A bargain struck. In return for taking care of those he left behind, Pan-Pan Po agreed to carry out this man's desires, do his dirty work, destroy those he felt necessary to eliminate, for the good of himself,, for the good of the world.

Pan-Pan Po didn't like the killing, would have preferred the peacefu life, but he would honor the bargain, do what was necessary to take care of those who looked to him.

And it wasn't such a bad life, really. His sponsor didn't send him out often, and when he did, most often the targets clearly needed eliminating. In between times, he could live quietly, enjoying his bamboo and the scenery around him.

But every now and again, he had to pay the price, to earn his living and that of his family and neighbors.

Like tonight.

O>>>\----------->

As he waited for his meal to arrive, Pan-Pan Po thought about the other reason he was here tonight. The one he'd been told to kill was supposed to be here, also enjoying the fine food. It wasn't his place to pass judgement, other than whether he chose to accept the commission or not, but here, he had to admit, this one needed killing.

The child, or so the man claimed, of Ayn Rand and God. If he were telling the truth, a power so great as to be too much for this fragile world and its petty mortals. If he were lying, an arrogance too powerful to be allowed to live. 

In either case, it was his job. The man, his target.

He had accepted the commission, the money, the duty.

Pan-pan Po always strove to do his duty.

And he would.

Later. For now, there was food. The fine salad that came to rest in front of him was lovely to the eye, and, Pan-Pan Po was sure, would also be quite lovely to his stomach.

It was also his duty to honor the chef by pouncing while the meal was at the peak of perfection.

And Pan-Pan Po always strove to do his duty.

O>>>\----------->

After a delightful meal, marred only by the prancing past of a pair of scantily-and-provocatively-clad cross-dressing strippers wearing name-tags that proclaimed them to be JFK and Stalin, a lie if ever there was one, both for the profession they obviously practiced in marked contrast to the ones their counterparts had played (although, Pan-pan Po mused, there was a bit of a correlation between politics and stripping – they both involved stripping down to show things that were not always best revealed) and the fact that they were both dead, tho' again, considering their attire, that might not be such a bad thing, Pan-Pan Po pushed back his plate with a grunt of satisfaction.

He settled his bill, leaving a generous tip, as he always did.

It was time. The main course had been wonderful, and if the dessert were less so, it wasn't the fault of the establishment. He rose, sighed, and with a heavy heart pulled out his favorite working weapon - a small crossbow that shot fire-hardened bamboo quarrels. He inspected it briefly, then rose to his paws and made his way to a certain table further along the wall, about two-thirds of the way down to the back. He moved silently, well, as silently as he could, which was surprisingly so for a creature of his size. He sighted his target, eating peacefully, completely unaware that this was to be his last moments on this Earth. Pan-Pan Po sighed quietly to himself - he hated this part, but he knew his skills, his job, and his duty. When he reached his target, still eating peacefully, still completely unaware that his time on this Earth had ended for this incarnation, Pan-pan Po reached out and tapped the man on the shoulder.

The man looked up at him. "You are Howard Rand?" Pan-Pan Po asked, ever polite. Besides, there had been a most unfortunate incident that had happened to a colleague of his, where the target had just happened to have had another take their place for the one evening they had been marked for death. His colleague had not inquired as to the identity, and an innocent life had been taken. He was determined never to make the same mistake. His colleague had never worked again, and had eventually had to sell himself to a zoo in order to get bamboo on the table.

"I am. Who wants to know?" Cultured, regal tones. But Pan-Pan Po would not let himself be dissuaded. He had a job to do and he would do it. He would not let himself be swayed from his task by anything, especially nothing so trivial and ultimately deceiving as an accent. 

"My employer sends his regards. And requests that you die now." Before Rand could reply, Pan-Pan Po pulled the trigger and the fire-hardened bamboo did its work. The man slumped in the remainder of his meal. Pan-Pan Po pulled out a wad of bills and peeled off a couple, which he left on the table, to help cover the extra work in cleaning up the mess. 

O>>>\----------->

He turned away and made his way out of the restaurant unhurriedly and unheralded. 

Another day. Another job. Another case where he eats shoots and leaves, and then shoots, and leaves.

Another day. Another comma. 

All in a day's work.

O>>>\----------->  



End file.
